The Final Piece
by roxierocks
Summary: Riley Poole has just become the newest rising star on the Shakespearean stage. Lord Benjamin Gates is tormented in his search for the final piece of an ancient treasure. Their lives are about to become immeasurably tangled - and changed forever. Slash AU.


A/ns. This fic was spawned from my love of Shakespeare and my utter hate of Shakespeare In Love. I don't even claim to be historically accurate at any point, although most of the characters are based on historical figures, except for the National Treasure ones, obviously. And Sir Thomas Gates, I'm pretty sure, was no relation to Benjamin Gates, really. Riley is 16 and I imagine Ben to be about 25. Also, this is un-betad and barely proof read as it's 2.15am and I power wrote this thing. Written fot the crack!challenge on treasuregeeks. I hope you get some sort of mediocral pleasure out of it!

London, 1610

April

The stage lamps flickered in the warm night air, almost seeming to herald the moment that was about to come.

Riley Poole took a deep breath and stepped forward. He knew if he looked up he would be able to see the stars stretching above him in a never ending blanket, the moon, though hidden by the thatch roof, still bright enough to cast her ghostly glow around the edges of the theatre.

He didn't look up though.

Instead he looked out, eyes raking the gathered audience, those in the pit and circles, all watching him with bated breath, anticipation in their eyes.

They knew tragedy approached. They knew death was near.

This was his moment, this was what he'd dreamt of for so long.

Everything in his life so far seemed to have been leading towards these very seconds.

Desdemona's final plea.

Riley closed his eyes and took another deep breath.

This was it.

"Poole!"

His eyes snapped open, daydream disintegrating as he was brought sharply back to the reality of a cold, grey afternoon.

The empty auditorium stared mockingly back, void of the avid spectators he had imagined there only moments before. There was a man standing towards the back of the pit, hands on hips and a frown creasing his weathered features.

"You're not paid to dally about on the stage all day! Are those bloody doors working yet?"

Riley shook his head mutely, a flush colouring his cheeks at being caught daydreaming when he should have been working.

"Well get on with it then!"

He scurried to the back of the stage, embarrassment prickling at the back of his neck as he could feel the watchful eyes still on him.

Mr Brown, the theatre's manager, was as rough as they came; he had a sharp tongue and a sharper wit and was never afraid to tell Riley exactly what he thought of him.

But he was also the man who had given Riley the chance to work when he was on the verge of starving in the streets, attempting to sell hand carved wooden puzzles to earn his bread.

Brown had stopped by his pitiful excuse for a stall, just a wooden crate turned on its side, and picked up one of the games, inspecting it with his careful gaze.

"You're good with your hands, boy," he'd said, voice gravely and low. "You know how to build things?"

Riley had nodded.

"Can you work mechanisms, like in your toys, only bigger?"

He had nodded again.

"Do you like the theatre?"

This time the nod had been enthusiastic.

"Very much, sir."  
Brown had regarded him carefully for a moment.

"I may just have job for you my lad. Come and see me tomorrow at the Globe. Midday. We'll put you to work and see how you do."

Nearly a year on and Riley was still working himself to the bone. It seemed that something in the theatre was constantly on the verge of collapse and he spent his days rushing around trying to get doors and pulleys and steps and curtains in working order.

The work was hard but the pay was enough to afford him small lodgings, and he no longer had to scavenge for every meal.

And it was the _theatre_.

Every since he was a small boy, Riley could remember loving the theatre. Before she died, his mother would take him to every performance they could afford. His father would growl that it was a waste of time and money, but she never stopped.

She knew how much he loved it, how much it made him happy. He thought she would be pleased, now, to know that he was in such lose proximity to that which he loved.

Whenever he could he would watch the company rehearse, hidden behind curtains or high up in the rafters. He tracked the actors with his eyes, following their every move, ears pricked for every sound.

Riley could not read, but he had committed parts to his memory simply by listening to the actors, saying the lines to himself over and over until they flowed from his lips as if born to be there.

He never spoke to the company members, of course, but he spent so much of his time observing he felt as if he knew each and every one personally. He longed to meet them, to talk to them. He longed to be able to approach Mr Shakespeare and discuss his plays, to praise his characters and ask all manner of questions.

But Riley knew his place. And so he continued, day by day, silently going about his work and playing his dreams in his head, snatching moments on the empty stage when he could imagine his loving audience.

The day had nearly been snatched from him by the time he finished working on the doors. Now, at least they could open and close with out the one on the right nearly coming off its hinges. He was just dusting himself off when loud voices approached the stage, off to the left from in the wings.

More out of habit than anything else, Riley ducked behind the finished doors and pulled them to, leaving only a crack to see through. The doors in question were the ones that sat right at the back of the large stage, and from his position Riley had a clear view of the two men that entered the theatre, one of them still talking loudly, his manner agitated.

"What in God's name are we going to do? We open in two days! We can't very well go to stage without him, can we?"

The first man was Richard Burbage, the leading actor in the company. Riley knew that he and his brother had helped build the Globe, and that he was very important in the theatre. He was a powerful and charismatic man that had Riley shaking whenever he came near enough.

"Calm down, Richard. Believe it or not this isn't the end of the world."

The second voice was softer, calming and belonged to a man that Riley felt he knew to the depths of his soul, though in reality they had never even spoken: William Shakespeare.

"Not the end of the world?" Burbage repeated in disbelief. "Will, it's our livelihood! It's your bloody play!"

"And we will find another Desdemona," Shakespeare replied with that unshakeable calm.

"In two days?" Burbage shouted.

Riley felt his interest pique as he understood what they were arguing about and the reason Burbage was so angry. They had no Desdemona? And the curtain went up in two days. What on earth had happened to the actor?

He felt his heart quicken a little.

This was an absolute disaster.

"It can't be done," Burbage was saying.

"Of course it can. All we need to find is someone who knows the part."

"And where the hell we will find them? We're the only ones who have copies of the bloody play! Oh God." Burbage shook his head, suddenly looking a lot paler. "We'll have to perform something we've done before. People will want their money back."

"That's not going to happen," Shakespeare said firmly.

"I know this is awfully thoughtless of me, but why in God's name did Alexander have to pick a fight this week of all weeks? Why couldn't the damn boy just learn to walk away?"

"Richard," Shakespeare said, a slight warning in his tone. "The boy is dead. Let us not speak ill of the dead."

Burbage shook his head again.

"Damn fool," he said softly. "Damn young fool."

Riley took a slight step back from the doors, mind reeling. Alexander was dead? He could scarcely believe it. Alexander Cooke was famously known for playing all of the female leads in the company, ever since he had been brought in by his patron, John Heminges. How could he be dead?

And what would happen to the play? They must perform! _Othello_ could possibly be Shakespeare's greatest play. Riley adored it. The characters, the story. All that jealousy and deception and, of course, death. It was a brilliant play.

He bit his lips and pressed himself back against the doors, eager to now know how this set events would turn out.

"I do have an idea," Shakespeare said. He looked unsure of himself, but Burbage's head snapped up at the words.

"Anything will do at this moment."  
Shakespeare glanced around the theatre, and for a moment his gaze settled on the doors at the back of the stage, Riley felt his heart still.

"Come out boy. I know you're hiding back there."

For a paralysing moment Riley could only stand, terrified, then he forced himself to step forward, nudging at the doors with a hesitant hand. Burbage looked surprised to see him lurking there, but Shakespeare's gaze was strangely calculating. Unsettling.

"Riley, isn't it?"

Riley nodded, licking his dry lips.

"Yes sir," he managed.

"Overheard our conversation did you, Riley?"

Riley nodded again, heart hammering.

"I didn't mean to sir," he hastened to explain. "I was just here fixing this door when you came in. Seemed rude to disturb you."

Shakespeare waved an impatient hand at the explanation.

"You understand the unfortunate situation with young Alex Cooke?"

Riley nodded again. Was he in trouble? He couldn't tell.

"How old are you, Riley?"

"Sixteen sir."

"Sixteen, Burbage," Shakespeare repeated, half turning to the man at his side.

Burbage was already shaking his head.

"Will, this is madness."

"He knows the lines, Richard." His sharp eyes flitted back to Riley. "Don't you boy?"

Riley couldn't bring himself to speak.

"I've seen you, when you think you're alone. You're actually not bad."

He was unable to stop the flush that flared up in his face. William Shakespeare had just told him he wasn't bad. _William Shakespeare._

Shakespeare turned his attention back to Burbage, who was still looking quite dubious.

"He knows the part, Richard," he said again. "At this stage what more can we hope for? And he's young, not entirely unattractive. Extremely slender. He'll fit into Alex's costumes no problem."

Burbage was shaking his head.

"You're mad, Will. Completely mad." He sighed heavily. "Very well. Send the boy to get a dress and corset immediately. If we are indeed to perform in two days, we'd better get a bloody move on. I'll be back in ten minutes."

Riley watched him depart, still frozen to his spot.

What, exactly, had just happened?

Shakespeare looked at him, and laughed.

"You look as if someone's hit you over the head lad. Cheer up. Isn't this what you dreamed of, all those times you recited the speeches, imagined the audience's eyes on you?"

Riley blushed.

"How did you know?" he asked shyly.

"Because they all do it. Hell, I've done it! But you have a surprising amount of talent, young Riley. And a monumental amount of luck. Now come on, we'd better go and find you that corset."

He winked, then strode off the stage, plainly expecting Riley to follow.

Rile hesitated a moment, casting a look around the theatre he known and loved for a year but in which he's always been invisible, behind the scenes.

That was all about to change.

He allowed himself the smallest of smiles, then hurried off after Mr Shakespeare, hurried off to his knew occupation.

And his dreams.

* * *

Lord Benjamin Gates leant back in his chair and rubbed a tired hand across his eyes.

It was his third day, now, without sleep and he was finally beginning to feel the effects of exhaustion. He longed to take to his bed, but knew that even if he did he would not rest. He could not rest.

Not when the final piece was within his grasp.

All his years of hard work, all the searching and hunting, the frustration and elation; it would all come together when he could hold that final piece in his hand.

When he could see the map.

"My Lord."

The quiet voice penetrated his awareness, and he turned to see his manservant, Sadusky, standing in the doorway.

"It is almost time to leave for the theatre."

The theatre.

Of course, he realised. Tonight was the first night of _Othello_. He was supposed to be courting Abigail Chase.

If only he could get his mind off those damn diamonds.

He knew it was impossible. They had consumed his thoughts for years, and being one step closer only made it that much worse.

It had been a legend, passed down in his family, that dated back so many generations it was no longer known where it had come from. His great great grandfather had claimed that the Gates family was actually related to the mythical figure of Cassandra herself, by blood. But then again, his great great grandfather had been quite mad.

The story went that after being raped and dragged from the fallen city of Troy, the princess Cassandra, prophetess of doom, vowed to one day return to her home, whether it be in life or death. Knowing her death was fast approaching, she secreted the location of the beloved city into her ceremonial jewels, so that she would always be able to find her way. Great great grandfather Gates claimed that after Cassandra was killed Clytemnestra took the jewels from her and, unknowing of the great secret they held, until she was in turn killed by her own children who then took the jewels, and they were passed down until eventually dismantled and made into new pieces of valuable jewellery.

Ben wasn't entirely sure he believed in the mythical side of the story, but what he did know was that each of the jewels had indentations, markings, on the back which, when placed together correctly, did indeed form some kind of code which he had yet been unable to decipher, but which he was sure must be some kind of key to a map.

He himself had hunted the globe for one of the seven pieces, the other five already found by the Gateses who had come before him. The illusive mythical city and the mystery of those diamonds had tormented his family through the ages.

Now there was only one final piece to be found, and the map would be completed.

Wherein lay the problem.

Ben had managed to trace its whereabouts to England. It had been in the possession of a wealthy family, Poole, roughly thirty years ago. Thomas Poole had been a man with a nasty gambling habit, and in 1583 the family had lost everything. They had been tossed out onto the streets, their belongings no longer their own. As far as Ben could discover, Poole only had one child, a daughter, who then married Samuel Carey, a respectable merchant. They had both died in the outbreak of plague in 1603. They had had no children.

For all Ben knew, that final piece could have been given to the debtors when the Pooles first fell into bankruptcy. He had scrutinised what documents there were of the incident and found no mention of any such item, but the sources were not entirely reliable. Poole could have given it to his daughter. It could be lying with her in her grave. Rotting.

"Sir?"

Ben blinked. He had quite forgotten Sadusky was there. Oh yes, he was supposed to be going to the theatre. Abigail Chase was going to be there.

"Yes, yes. The theatre. Of course. _Othello_, isn't it? I do rather like that one. I remember seeing it before. It is the one where he strangles her in the end, isn't it?"

"Yes sir."

He nodded to himself.

"Yes, of course. I do enjoy Master Shakespeare's plays. Is it a warm night?"

Sadusky nodded.

"It is my Lord."

"Excellent. It rather spoils it when it rains."

Later, as he took his seat in the circle, he reflected on just how long it ad been since he had come to the theatre. Far too long, the last thing he'd seen was _The Jew of Malta_, and that had been a good month or so ago. His eyes roved around the auditorium, settling on the figure of Abigail Chase, seated around the other side of the circle with her maid. Her golden hair shone under the low lamps, and she was smiling as she conversed with another lady.

She was very beautiful.

Ben couldn't say he was unhappy about the proposed marriage.

Abigail came with an impressive dowry, she was young and pretty and had a burgeoning independence which he knew she worked hard to suppress. His father had been most pleased by the proposition of the marriage, and as Ben didn't have any particular objections he agreed to court her.

He supposed she would make a fine wife. He may even grow to love her.

She looked up then, and their eyes caught for a moment. He saw her smile widen, a faint blush tainting her cheeks.

Well, clearly he didn't need to do much to impress her.

"My God, Gates. You look like pure hell."

Ben grinned at the voice, turning on his bench to see Ian Howe behind him, his ever present superior smile curving at his lips.

Ben and Ian had been friends for a number of years, unfortunately this didn't mean Ian treated him with any less contempt than every other person in London. Howe was insufferably smug, and Ben seemed to be the only who could put up with him for any real length of time. Their friendship was certainly a strange one.

"I haven't slept."

"Still running around looking for those mythical diamonds?" Ian teased.

"They're _not_ mythical," Ben replied with a flush of annoyance.

Ian laughed.

"You're far too easy, man." His tone turned a little serious. "Have you found it though, the final piece?"

Ben glance around to make sure no one was listening. His reputation in society was that of a slightly eccentric young Lord, which no one seemed to particularly mind. Indeed, it even endeared him to some, but it would not do to start airing out his affairs in the theatre. When he'd found the diamond, when he'd found the city; then he could tell the world.

"I'm close, Ian," he said quietly. "So damn close. I know it's within my grasp but the trail has gone cold. I think I may need a small miracle."

"Don't give up. You found the sixth one, didn't you? You will find this one."

Ben nodded, strangely reassured, and Ian clapped him on the back as stewards began dousing the lanterns in the auditorium.

"I have faith in you, Ben."

Sometimes he really needed to hear those words.

He turned his attention to the stage as the play began; Shakespeare himself was playing the villainous Iago, and Nicholas Tooley the put upon Rodrigo. Ben tried to put the diamonds out of his mind, tried to absorb himself in the play – even if it was just for a few hours.

It wasn't until nearly the end of the scene, when John Heminges entered as old Brabantio, that he was startled out of the complacent interest he'd slipped into.

"Christ," he murmured, leaning back towards Ian. "Heminges looks appalling. Like he's about to drop down dead any moment."

"Can you blame him?" Ian asked. "Poor man. He's suffering."

"From what?" Ben asked, alarmed. "Is he ill?"

Ian stared at him.

"Good grief, Gates, you really do need to get out more. When was the last time you were even at Court anyway?"

Ben waved the question aside with annoyance. He hated going to Court.

"What's that got to do with Heminges?"

Ian shook his head.

"Nothing. I can't believe you haven't heard!"

"Heard what?" Ben snapped, annoyance beginning to get the better of him.

"Alex Cooke was killed this week."

Ben stared.

"Killed?"

Ian nodded, expression suddenly graved.

"In a tavern brawl. Damn idiot. He always did have a big mouth, never quite knew when to keep it shut."

"I can't believe it." Ben looked back to the stage, to Heminges. "Lord, poor Heminges. Cooke was his apprentice, wasn't he?"

Ian leant a little farther forward. "And from what I hear, Heminges is taking it a little _too_ hard, if you understand my meaning."

Ben blinked.

"What exactly are you insinuating."

"Oh come on, Ben. Everyone knows what Heminges is like."

"He has a daughter! And Alex was half his age!"

Ian shrugged.

"And?"

Ben shook his head in amazement.

"You really are too much."

"I'm just saying what everyone else is thinking. They were lovers."

"Ian!" he hissed, consciously aware of the other theatre goers around them.

"They were," Ian insisted. "Besides, they're all at it, aren't they? That theatre lot?"

"I wouldn't know," Ben replied.

Ian smirked.

"I know _you_ wouldn't, Gates."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that you're more virginal than most girls on their wedding night."

Ben sighed.

"Ian…"

"See? I even mention the prospect of sex and you start blushing."

"I do not!" Ben denied, hating the flush he knew was on his cheeks.

"You should hurry up and marry the Chase girl. Get it over and done with."

"You have no idea what you're talking about."  
Ian chuckled.

"Funny, I was just thinking the same thing about you."  
Ben flushed harder and turned away. Ian was wrong. He _had_ made love to a woman before. Just because he didn't want to do it with the whores on the street like everyone else…

His attention was diverted, however, as Desdemona came on stage. Ben could immediately tell it wasn't the deceased Cooke. This boy was more slender, moving with such grace that at first Ben found it hard to believe it wasn't an actual woman.

The boy moved with a quiet sort of confidence, and when he looked out over the audience, there was no trace of nerves in his face.

"My noble father," Desdemona said.

The voice was light. It seemed to float over the heads of the audience, drifting in the warm April air.

Ben felt a tight, unfamiliar sensation in his chest, almost as if a fist was trying to pound on the inside.

"Who is that?" he asked softly.

"His name's Riley Poole," Ian said, and Ben felt the fist pound harder. "Apparently he worked on the carpentry until two days ago. Rumour is Will Shakespeare himself commissioned him."

"Poole?" Ben repeated. "Did you say Poole?"

There must have been urgency in his tone, because Ian regarded him with a flicker of concern in his eyes.

"Yes. Why, do you know him?"

Ben shook his head. He felt strange, disorientated. He tried not to get too excited.

It might just be a coincidence.

He turned his eyes back to the stage, where Desdemona was speaking poetically of her love for her husband, captivating every single member of the audience.

"Riley Poole," he breathed.

He may have just found his miracle.

* * *

Riley couldn't stop smiling, laughing. He was completely breathless, souring on emotion as the actors came from giving their final bow.

"They liked me!" he gasped to Shakespeare. "Did you hear? They were clapping…and cheering! They liked me!"

"Because you were magnificent!" Shakespeare replied, a warm hand pressed into the small of Riley's back.

"Superb!" agreed Burbage with a wide smile. "You have saved us from despair, dear boy."

Riley shook his head, dazed. He could still barely believe it.

"Thank you," he said, seriously, eyes on Shakespeare. "Without you, Mr Shakespeare…"

"Call me Will like everyone else," Shakespeare laughed. "And Richard is right. Without you we would have had no play. We owe you our thanks."

"Poole!"

Riley started at Mr Brown's shout. He still couldn't get used to the knowledge that he was an actor now. He kept expecting Brown to grab him by the ear and tell his to stop doing shoddy work.

"Someone wants to see you! Back door."

Shakespeare smiled.

"An admirer?" he teased. "Go on, then. Go and meet them!"

Shyly, Riley made his way to theatre door, pulling off his blonde wig as did so, horribly aware that his hair was stuck flat to the top of his head underneath.

A man was waiting for him just inside, tall with dark hair and knowing eyes. Handsome, young, clearly rich.

Riley swallowed.

"Riley Poole?"

The man stepped forward and Riley nodded nervously.

"Benjamin Gates. I wanted to congratulate you on your performance. Truly impressive."

"Thank you," Riley tried to say, but there was something wrong with his voice and it got stuck in his throat.

Benjamin Gates smiled, as if he knew Riley's problem.

"Can I perhaps tempt you to take a drink with me? I really would love to discuss the finer points of the performance with you."

Riley swallowed again. It seemed that there was no saliva in his mouth.

"I, um, the company goes to the Mermaid Tavern," he muttered, barely audible. "It's on the other side of the river. Cheapside," he added, because this Gates didn't look like he'd know Cheapside if it arrived on his doorstep. Riley knew it too well.

Gates's lips twisted, just very slightly.

"Ah yes. A little rough for my tastes." He seemed to uncertain for a moment, as if he was weighing something in his mind.

"Perhaps I can attempt you to accompany me to my home, instead? My manservant has the coach outside, and I'm sure we could arrange for some food when we get there. How about it?"

Riley hesitated. He wasn't sure what this man's intentions were. He knew, of course, what men liked to do with other men. He knew what went on behind the closed doors.

On the other hand, Gates may really have just enjoyed the play. He may be entirely honourable.

"Riley!" It was Shakespeare. "Are you coming to the Mermaid to celebrate? I promise to keep you out of any brawls!"

His smile slipped a fraction as he saw Gates, then returned seconds later, blindingly bright.

"Lord Gates! How nice of you to attend the performance."

Gates tilted his head in acknowledgement.

"Master Shakespeare. I very much enjoyed it."

"Thank you. And I was sorry to hear about your father."

Riley glanced up at Gates, watching the way his lips tightened fractionally at the mention.

"Thank you."

"And so soon after your uncle," Shakespeare continued.

Gates's mouth was set in a tight line.

"I still hold out hope that my uncle's ship will be found," he said, a definite coldness in his air.

An expression suspiciously like pity flashed through Shakespeare's eyes.

"For your sake I hope you are right."

"I was wondering if I could steal your protégé from you, if it isn't too inconvenient."

Shakespeare tilted his head, amusement in his countenance as his eyes flickered over Riley.

"My protégé indeed?"

"As my friend Ian Howe had led me to believe."

This time there was no mistaking the way Shakespeare's smile slipped.

"Howe?" he repeated disdainfully. "I wouldn't make a habit of believing anything hat man says, if I were you."

"With all due respect, you are not me," Gates replied, politely but firmly. He turned his attention to Riley. "Shall we?"

Riley looked to Shakespeare, unsure. His face was impassive.

"I need to get changed," he mumbled.

Gates nodded.

"I shall wait outside the theatre."  
He left, and Riley turned to go the dressing room. Shakespeare stopped him with a touch on his arm.

"Be careful, Riley. Men like Gates and Howe…they're rich and they're spoilt. They're used to getting whatever they want, when they want it. They don't like it when people say no."

Riley bit his lip, suddenly feeling even more nervous.

"Have you…had dealings with them before?"

"Not with Gates. He's known as a bit of an eccentric, keeps to himself. But Howe...he's bad news. Stay away from him."  
Riley nodded earnestly.

"I will. Do you think I should not go to Lord Gates's house?"

"That's not up to me to say," replied Shakespeare. "Just be careful. That's all." His gaze softened slightly. "You're one of us now."

His words were still in forefront of Riley's mind, ten minutes later, as he made his way out to the front of the theatre.

He found Lord Gates talking to a beautiful blonde woman, who was smiling and chatting happily away.

Gates's eyes found Riley, over her head, and Riley thought he must have managed the look of relief which flitted over his face.

"Ah, Riley. May I introduce you to Miss Abigail Chase? Riley was playing Desdemona this evening."

"Oh!" The woman, Abigail, flushed. "You were just wonderful! I wish I could act like that!"

Gates shifted uncomfortably.

"Abigail," he murmured.

"Oh I know. It's against the law." She sighed, looking decidedly put out. "When will women get a chance to anything? That's what I want to know."

Gates coughed and she flushed again.

"If you'll excuse me. I don't mean to be so outspoken."

"Not at all," Gates said. "Unfortunately, we must be away. It was enchanting to see you again."

Abigail smiled.

"And you. I trust to see you at the theatre again soon? It had been far too long."

"Naturally," Gates replied, eyes flicking to Riley in a way which made him shift awkwardly.

"And you will be returning to Court soon? You are sorely missed."

"We shall see."

It may have been Riley's imagination, but the smile Gates gave seemed rather forced.

Gates led Riley to his coach, and a manservant opened the door for him, Gates ushering him inside.

They travelled across the river, up along the Embankment and onto the Strand, the coach going through a pair of gates and up to the largest house Riley had ever seen. Surely even the King didn't have a palace like this!

"Welcome to Arundel House," Gates murmured, close to his ear, startling him.

Riley smiled, feeling a bit breathless.

"It's beautiful," he breathed. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Thank you." Gates looked out, his eyes moving over his home. "It is beautiful."

The stiff, formal man who had stood with him in the theatre seemed to melt away before Riley's eyes. He relaxed, the tautness of his face slackening, his mouth losing that hard line.

Inside, he threw off his coat and boots, encouraging Riley to do the same.

The manservant went after them, taking Riley's coat from him and picking Gates's up from the bureau with an air of long suffering.

"It's very quiet," Riley said. His voice seemed intrusive.

"There's no one here," Gates replied. "It's just me, Sadusky and Cook."

"Is it lonely?" Riley asked, before he could stop himself.

"Only sometimes. I like the peace."

"Where are your parents?"

Clear sorrow flitted across Gates's face, and Riley could have kicked himself.

"My mother died in childbirth, and my father passed away just last month."

Of course, that was what Shakespeare had meant, back in the theatre.

"I'm sorry," he said immediately.

Gates smiled.

"No matter. Sadusky." The manservant appeared, from a side door. "Tell Cook we have a guest and to please work her magic. And send up a flask while we wait."

"Of course, my Lord."

He turned back to Riley.

"Come, let us sit in the study."

Riley followed him, curious, down a hallway, feet echoing on the marble floor, feeling extremely self conscious. Shakespeare's warnings kept echoing in his mind. If Gates was feeding him, surely he must want something in return?

The study was a warm room with ornate wooden panelling. Riley slid into one of chairs and looked around in wonder.

Lord Gates clearly had an interest in geography of the world. Maps covered the walls, each with hand written notes, lines, circles. There were drawings of cities and people that Riley did not know.

One particular painting caught his eye; hanging over the fireplace a distinguished, handsome looking man.

"Is that your father?"

Gates followed his eye line.

"My uncle. He's a knight."

"A knight?" Riley asked, fascinated.

Gates nodded.

"Sir Thomas Gates. He set sail last year on the The Sea Venture to sail to Jamestown, but his ship got caught in a storm and separated from the others. It never arrived."

Riley gaped.

"What happened?"

"Who knows? They keep telling me the ship had suck and my uncle is dead, but I refuse to give up hope. He's the only family I have left."

There was something in his voice, as he said it, that made Riley feel suddenly as if he knew a part of this man. He, too, had no family. He was alone. He knew how Gates felt.

"My family are dead too," he said softly.

Gates turned, a sadness etched into his features.

"I'm sorry."

Riley shrugged.

"It was a few years ago now. The plague. My father wasn't much to speak of but my mother…" He trailed off, suddenly embarrassed.

Gates was watching him.

"Go on," he urged.

Riley shrugged again.

"That's it really. They're dead."

"And you're alone."

Rile found himself nodding and stopped.

"I do okay. And I'm in The King's Men now."

"Ah yes," Gates leaned back in his chair. "The King's Men. The most sought after players in England. I suppose it must all be quite a shock to you."

Riley nodded, unable to help the little smile that crept onto his lips.

"I imagine your mother would be proud."

Riley felt himself stiffen. He wished he hadn't brought his parents up. He didn't want to talk about his mother.

"Your home really is very beautiful," he said.

Gates regarded him for a moment.

"It's the only place I feel truly myself," he said after a pause.

"But you must have a very glamorous life," Riley remarked. How could it not be? Riches and a title, the things Riley knew he would never own himself.

"I suppose so." He looked unhappy for some reason. "High society is full of hypocrisy. You are expected to so this and be that. You are expected to attend Court and marry a suitable girl. But beneath it all…" He trailed off. "You'll have to pardon me. I find myself dissatisfied with life, since my father's passing."

Riley bit his lip.

"I always thought I was worth nothing," he confessed softly. "That I would never amount to anything, just a beggar boy. But then Mr Shakespeare gave me a chance and now…I suppose what I'm trying to say that I found the thing I was waiting for, I think. The same thing will happen to you."

Gates watched him, something unfathomable in his eyes.

"I hope so," he murmured. "By God I hope so."

He gaze was intense, and Riley found himself returning it almost unwillingly. There was something about that gaze that drew him in, that made him feel strange, yet elated at the same time.

"Riley Poole," Gates murmured. "You are-"

He broke off at a knock at the door.

Sadusky opened it a moment later, a flask in his hand and two mugs.

"Wine, sir."

"Thank you, Sadusky."

In the low light Riley couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw a flush of colour in Lord Gates's cheeks.

* * *

Ben didn't know what was wrong with him.

He was acting like a complete fool! He couldn't seem to get out an entire sentence this evening. He was supposed to be finding out about the boy's mother, finding out if she was indeed the last known Poole to be in possession of the final diamond.

Instead he was taking the boy into his confidence, spilling his innermost thoughts of the society he detested so much!

It was like he couldn't help it. Every time he looked at Riley he felt that something squeezing inside his chest again. He couldn't bear to press the boy about his mother, not when he looked so miserable at the prospect.

And God knows what he was about to say before Sadusky walked in.

He needed to get himself together.

If Ian ever found about this he would never live it down.

And yet…

They sat down to their meal, a little while later, of warm bread, cheese and cold meats.

Rile ate as if he hadn't been fed in a year, and Ben watched him with a curiously concerned gaze.

He was so thin.

"Lord Gates?" he asked.

Ben blinked, forcing himself to focus.

"It's Benjamin," he corrected gently. "Ben."

"Ben," Riley repeated, rolling the word around as if trying on a frock coat. "Ben. Why do you have so many maps? In the study?"

"I have a great interest in the world," he replied. "My family has spent many, many years travelling the world, searching the world for artefacts."

"What sort of artefacts?"

It was the perfect lead into asking Riley about his family, telling him about the diamonds, embarking on the search for the final piece.

"Just artefacts," he said. "Nothing important, not really."

Sadusky, in the process of pouring them more wine, stopped dead in his task.

Ben cleared his throat, and Sadusky resumed pouring.

As the meal went on, Riley began to talk. He spoke of the theatre at great length, of his newfound acting ability. He talked about Shakespeare and Marlowe and Jonson. He spoke of his carpentry skills, told Ben of how he came to be in the theatre in the first place.

He talked and talked, and with each word Ben found himself getting more and more swept away; by his voice, by his enthusiasm, by the ways his eyes lit with delight as he talked.

As the evening drew to a close, and Ben sent for a public coach to take Riley back to the theatre, he felt something almost like regret. It had been so long since he had actively enjoyed another's company, he almost didn't want Riley to leave.

"I'll come and see you again," he found himself saying. "Tomorrow night."

Riley smiled, suddenly shy again.

"And perhaps afterwards…we can…have another meal?"

Riley nodded, ducking his head as he blushed.

"I'd like that," he murmured.

Ben watched the coach is it receded down the drive.

When he went back inside, Sadusky was standing in the hallway. There was a knowing look in his eyes that Ben found irritated him.

"What?"

"Nothing, my Lord."

Impassive, as ever.

Ben sighed.

"I couldn't ask him. I don't why. The piece could be in my grasp and that boy is all that stands in the way! Why couldn't I ask him?" He groaned, head falling back against the wall in frustration. "What's happening to me?"

"If I may be so bold, sir?"

Ben opened one eye.

"Go on."

"Perhaps you have finally found something, or dare I say someone, that actually holds more appeal than the diamonds."  
Ben tried to dismiss the idea, later that night as he lay in bed.

But every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was the face of Riley Poole.

* * *

June

"Riley!"

As soon as Sadusky had let him in, Ben had thrown himself on the younger man, enveloping him in a fierce embrace.

Riley laughed as he pulled back.

"Not that this isn't a lovely welcome, but I'm not entirely sure I deserve it!"

"They found him!" Ben said. "Thomas! He sailed into Jamestown a month ago! He's alive!"

Riley stared at him, silently repeating the words as they sunk in.

"He's alive? Ben…that's wonderful! I don't believe it!"

Ben laughed, delighted.

"I know. They've made him governor! Apparently that idiot George Percy has been starving everyone for the last ten months and so Thomas has been given Governor status in replacement."

"I'm so pleased for you."

"Come, come in. I'll show you the letter he sent."

They retired to Ben's study, well known, now, to both of them, and Ben handed Riley the hand written letter.

He watched as Riley studied it, a crease between his eyebrows as he concentrated.

"I can't understand it all," he admitted finally. "The words…they're difficult."

Ben took the letter from him and sat on the arm of his chair.

They spent the next hour going through the letter together, Ben patiently teaching Riley any of the words he didn't know.

As he watched him, it occurred to Ben just how different Riley was from the shy, stammering boy he'd met two months ago. He was now confident, mature, literate. His fast intelligence and quick wit had been coaxed out, and every day, every moment they spent together Ben found himself feeling more and more for the younger man.

Ben hadn't though about the diamond for a month.

Even now, when it did cross his mind, he found the notion of Troy so easy to dismiss. What did he care for some hidden mythical city? It was like Riley had said to him, their very first meeting; he had been waiting for something to fulfil him, to complete his existence.

He'd found Riley.

Which was why what he had to say next was going to be so difficult.

"Riley?"

Riley, still absorbed in Thomas's letter, didn't look up.

"Hmm?"

Ben gently pulled the letter from his hands.

"I have to talk to you."

"Oh? Is something wrong?"

"No," Ben said immediately. "Well, sort of."

"Sort of?" repeated Riley. He looked worried. "What is it?"

"Nothing really. It's a good thing. It is."

Riley smiled, unsure.

"Why do you sound like you're trying to convince yourself?"

Ben sighed and stood up, running a hand through his hair.

"I'm betrothed."

He didn't dare look at Riley for a moment. There was utter silence in the room.

"Oh," Riley said eventually. "To Abigail."

Benjamin nodded.

Riley's face was completely blank.

"I see."

"I'm sorry," Ben said helplessly.

"Why?" Riley stood up. There was a horrible stiffness in his expression. "You have nothing to be sorry for. Congratulations."

Ben bit his lip. Riley wouldn't look at him.

"Why now, if you don't mind me asking. It just seems a bit sudden."

"My uncle," Ben said softly. "If he comes back, he'll expect…he'll be disappointed. I'm old enough, more than old enough. I need to settle down, stop living in a dream world. I can't…"

He trailed off. It was as if his late father's words were coming from his mouth.

"Is that really what you want?" Riley asked.

Ben closed his eyes, swallowed miserably.

"Yes," he said. No. Never.

"Right."

When he opened his eyes again, Riley was nodding, his gaze fixed somewhere over Ben's left shoulder. "Right," he said again. He was blinking rapidly. "I should go."

"Riley-"

"I'm really pleased about your uncle, Ben. And if this is what will make you happy…" He shrugged helplessly, then turned and left.

Ben stood there, in the sudden deafening silence of the room.

He took a long, deep breath. Thought about Abigail, her beauty her vivaciousness. Thought about his uncle, his only remaining relative.

Thought about Riley.

He was running, flying out of the front door and down the drive towards Riley, calling out his name.

Riley stopped and turned towards him, but Ben continued to run, ran until he was in front of Riley, until he could touch him.

"Ben?" Riley asked unsure.

"I love you," Ben said clearly. "I know I shouldn't, and I know it's wrong but I do. I can't help it. And believe me, I've tried."

"Ben don't."

"I love you," he said again. "I love you, Riley."

Riley said nothing, stood stock still and staring. Shaking, Ben realised.

"Please," Ben whispered. He reached out a hesitant hand to Riley's face, hovered a moment in mid air, then settled on his cheek.

Riley sucked in a breath, as if the touch was electric.

"Please," Ben said again.

Riley shuddered, once, then seemed to break, falling into Ben's embrace and seeking out his lips, kissing him with a passion that flooded Ben's every sense.

"Ben," Riley gasped, as they tore apart for air. "Ben we can't-"

"Yes we can," Ben said firmly. If he had this chance, this moment, then nothing was going to take it away from him. He smiled wryly. "Though we can't do it outside."

Riley laughed. He was still shaking.

"Come on," Ben coaxed. "Inside."

He led Riley back inside, upstairs to his bedchamber.

The door closed with a slightly ominous click, and Ben saw Riley flinch.

"Ben," he said. "It's a sin."

"How can it be sin?" Ben asked fiercely. "How can it be a sin when I have never felt such passion, such love for another person as this? How can it be sin when you make me feel alive, make me feel as I finally have some worth? When you are the only thing in the entire universe that can make me forget my silly obsession with a mythical city, make me see how worthless that was, how futile? Look at me and tell you don't feel the same!"

"I do," Riley whispered. "You know I do."

"Let me love you," Ben begged. "For you are like a fire in my very soul."

Riley shook his head.

"It's a sin," he said again, though his voice was faint.

"Then I will sin," Ben said simply. "I will sin."

"Ben," Riley breathed.

"Tell me, Riley. Tell me you feel the same."

"I love you. Ben, I love you."

They came together, any last resistance torn away in the face of their mutual desire.

And Ben knew, even if it was a sin, he would not regret this.

He would not regret

* * *

Riley slept a brief, sated sleep in Ben's arms.

It was dark outside when he stirred. He estimated it to be late. Ben was sleeping soundly, and Riley took a moment to trace the relaxed lines of his face, to savour the feeling of the moment.

There had been the most curious instant earlier, as he was undressing, when Ben had stopped, completely frozen, staring at the pendant that hung on a long, thin chain around Riley's neck. The pendant had been his mother's, nothing fancy, just a simple piece of cut glass fashioned into the centre of a silver flower. Worthless. Riley treasured it, and rarely ever took it off. It was the last remaining link to his mother.

Ben had reached out, touched it, and lifted it close to his eyes, a look of wonder on his face.

"It was my mother's," Riley explained.

"Your mother?" Ben asked, turning the flower in his hands, mesmerised.

Riley had nodded. "Her married name was Carey but I left that behind with my father's body. My mother loved me more than my father ever had. This is all that remains of her now."

Ben had laughed, suddenly.

"What?" Riley asked. "What is it?"

Ben shook his head and laid the pendant back against Riley's chest, pressing his palm over it.

"It's nothing," he'd said, wonder in his voice. "It doesn't matter anymore. It really doesn't matter."

Riley hadn't pretended to understand, but he hadn't felt he needed to. Ben would tell him, when he was ready, if he needed to know.

He sighed now, drawing his hand back from Ben's face. He would never forget this. He would treasure this memory close, in his heart, for the rest of his life.

But he knew it could not be.

Ben must marry Abigail. He must enter respectable society. And Riley belonged to the theatre now. Which was not so respectable.

He eased himself out of Ben's arms, shuffling to the edge of the bed and trying to locate his breeches with his feet.

"What are you doing?" Ben asked sleepily.

"Nothing," Riley murmured. "Go back to sleep."

"Come back to bed." There was a pause, then he heard Ben sitting up, a hand gentle on his back. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"I have to go, Ben," he said softly. He turned, a sliver of moonlight lighting the room, to see Ben's face.

"Go where?"

"Away. This can never happen again."

There was something in Ben's eyes now, a growing fear. Riley tried not to see it.

"What are you saying?"

"You have to marry her, Ben. It's respectable. It's right."

"I don't give a damn about being respectable!"

"But I do!" He placed a gentle hand on Ben's face, felt the way it fit into his palm. Perfect. "I do. I care about your respectability. Ben, I'm just an actor. I tarnish your reputation by even being your friend. If it became known that I was your lover…"

"It won't." Ben grabbed at his hand, eyes pleading. "It won't. They all think I'm strange anyway. I don't care. I just want to be with you."

"I _can't_," Riley whispered. He felt like he was breaking, inside. "I can't, Ben."

"But I love you."

"It's not enough. It's not enough."

He pulled away, went back to his task of dressing. He suddenly felt so much older than his sixteen years. How had he changed so much, in such a short time?

"Riley," Ben said. He sounded as if he was being torn apart. "Please don't do this."

"You know it's right."

He couldn't look at Ben. One look and he would give in. He wasn't strong enough.

He dressed in silence. Ben didn't try and convince him again. He went to the door, then hesitated.

"Ben."

"Just go. If that's what you want then just leave."

Riley felt a brief flare of anger, gone in the next moment, doused by his own heartbreak.

"It doesn't matter what I want," he said. "It's what's right."

He left.

* * *

July

Ben ignored the knock on his bedchamber door.

When it came a third time, he flung back his blankets with a growl and stormed across the room, opening it with a deafening crack.

Sadusky was on the other side, as impassive as ever.

"Lord Howe is here to see you, Master."

"I'm ill," Ben snapped. "I do not wish to see anyone."

"He is quite insistent, my lord."

"Yes I bloody well am!" Ian's voice thundered from behind Sadusky. He pushed the manservant aside and strode into the bedchamber.

"What the hell has happened, Gates? Even you can't get away with hiding for an entire month. Unless you've caught the plague." He suddenly stopped. "By God, you haven't, have you?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Ben gestured away Sadusky, who was still in the hallway.

"Then why on earth hasn't anyone seen you for well over a month now? You haven't been to Court, you haven't been to the Theatre. The King is displeased. Abigail is losing interest."

Ben shrugged, impassive, moving to the window. The sun made him irritable. He wished he could shut it out.

"I don't understand you, man! You agree to a contract of marriage then disappear into a pit of despair! One would think it was an occasion to be joyful!"

"It's not about the marriage," Ben said tersely.

"Then what is it?"

He sighed, running a hand through his lank hair.

"I found the final piece."

There was sharp intake of breath.

"I don't believe it. Where is it? Can I see it?"

"I don't have it."

"What…then where is it?"

"Riley has it."

There was a heavy moment of silence.

"Riley?" Ian repeated. "Why on earth did you give it to him?"

There was a disdain in Ian's voice which made Ben curl his hands into fists. He knew Ian thought Riley was worthless, thought Ben was mad for befriending him. Mad…

"He had it all along. I knew, from that first night in the playhouse. As soon as you said his name was Poole I knew he had it."

"That's why you've spending all this time with him?" Ian sounded excited. Ben clenched his fists, nails cutting into his palms. "I knew there had to be something behind it all. Teaching the actor to read! Honestly."

"You don't understand," Ben said blankly. "The piece doesn't matter anymore."

"What? Of course the piece bloody matters! This is all you've ever wanted!"

"Not anymore."

"Ben, you're not making any sense. What are you talking about?"

"I fell in love with him, Ian. I went and fell in love with him. I don't care about the piece anymore. I don't care about Troy. Because he made me forget. He's the only thing I want, the only thing I care about anymore. He's…gone."

The silence that followed his confession was painful.

Eventually, Ian spoke.

"You mean to tell me you have given up on the dream of generations of your family, given up on a find of such vast historical value and wealth, because you've fallen in _love_-" he said the word as if it was poison "-with an _actor_?"

"Yes," Ben said. "Yes."

"God, you're pathetic, Gates."

Ben turned at the new tone. Any warmth, any friendship was gone from Ian's voice. His expression was pure disdain.

"I thought you had ambition. I thought you were different. Better. But you're pathetic. You're worse than pathetic. All it took was a pretty whore to turn your head."

Ben was on his feet in an instant.

"Riley is not a whore."

Ian shook his head, lips curled in a sneer.

"He's an actor. They're one and the same. You're a pathetic fool, Gates. A pathetic fool."

He left, and Ben sat back down at the window. He traced Ian's departure, his horse kicking up grass in its wake. He hadn't expected Ian to understand, how could he?

Ian scoffed at love, at the idea of being ruled by emotion. To him everything was business, pleasure and material.

He was cold and unfeeling.

Ben closed in on himself, wishing he could just disappear.

The worst thing was, everything Ian had said about him was true.

He was pathetic. And a fool.

And he had given up the dreams of his forefathers by abandoning that last piece.

And he didn't care.

What would he do with historical fame, with even more wealth?

What would be the point?

Without Riley it was all meaningless anyway.

* * *

It was dark as Riley stumbled through Cheapside, The Mermaid Tavern set firmly in his sights.

The company was performing Jonson's _Sejanus_, and this evening had been a particularly trying performance. Riley had felt slow and sluggish, and Richard had shouted at him in between scenes more than once to pull himself together.

Now, all he wanted to do was get well and truly drunk.

Inside the tavern, he sought out the other players, ignoring Richard's half glare as he slid onto the bench next to Will.

Will pushed a tankard of ale towards him.

"Drink," he advised.

Riley nodded glumly, and did as he was instructed.

The evening wore on, and the players became more and more raucous. Robert Armin was standing on the table, doing a loud and apparently hilarious impression of the church's cleric, when Riley was aware of Will's gentle hand on his arm.

"You okay?"

Riley shrugged.

"Same."

Will was the only one Riley had told about Ben. He was the only Riley trusted not to make fun of him, not to judge him for it.

"I heard he still hasn't left his house," Will offered. It made Riley feel a little better. But only a little.

"Poole!"

It took him a moment to register the shout, hear it over the general noise of the tavern. Will's hand tightened on his arm, and Riley looked up to see Ian Howe storming across the crowded tavern floor towards him, enraged and looking slightly deranged.

He stood as Will did, noting the way Will stepped slightly forward so that Riley was behind him.

"Lord Howe," he said pleasantly. "To what do we owe this pleasure?"

"It's not you I'm interested in, Shakespeare. Give me the boy."

"Touch him and you die," Will said, tone still pleasant but eyes deadly serious.

Ian sneered.

"Don't think I won't mind killing you, Shakespeare."

"Empty threats, Howe," Will replied, voice steady.

Ian glared, his gaze shifting over Will's shoulder, to Riley.

"All I want is the diamond, boy."

Riley stared. Diamond?

"What diamond?"

"The bloody diamond! The diamond that Ben has been searching for all these years. The diamond that he told me, this very day, you have in your possession."

"You've seen Ben?" Riley asked. He stepped forward, nudging Will out of the way. "How is he?"

"I'm not here to talk about Ben! I want that diamond!"

"I don't have a diamond!" Riley insisted. If he had a diamond would he really have spent half of his life starving on the streets?

"Ben said he knew you had it, as soon as he learnt your name. He said he knew."

Riley stared at him, utterly perplexed. There was the haze if a memory filtering into his conscious. A memory of Ben staring at his mother's pendant as if it was priceless, a memory of himself saying _"Her married name was Carey but I left that behind with my father's body.",_ a memory of Ben pressing his hand over the pendant.

"My God," he whispered.

He reached under his shirt, withdrew the pendant, held it in his hand. The glass winked at him. The diamond.

Ian's eyes widened.

"That's it," he breathed. "The last piece. Ben was right."

"The last piece of what?" Will asked.

Riley blinked. He closed his hand round the petal. The silver flowers bit into his palm.

"The last piece of the mythical ceremonial jewels of Cassandra of Troy. Ben believes there to be an inscription on the back that will lead us to Troy itself."

"Troy didn't really exist," Will said.

"The diamond in Riley's hand begs to differ."

_You are the only thing in the entire universe that can make me forget my silly obsession with a mythical city, make me see how worthless that was, how futile._

"Is this what he wanted?" he asked. His voice sounded weak to his ears. "This was what he wanted from me?"

"You didn't really believe he'd fallen in love with you, did he?" Ian laughed.

To his shame, Riley felt the prick of tears.

"Oh you did. In that case, I'm sorry to be the bearer of bed news."

"That's enough, Howe," Will said sharply.

"Lord Howe, Shakespeare. Where are your manners?"

"You've had your fun! Get out of here."

"Gladly. Once I have that diamond."

Ian stretched out his hand.

"Give it me Riley. It's worthless to you."

Riley squeezed the flower tight. He could see Ben, Ben kissing him and telling Riley he was the fire in his soul.

"Go to hell," he spat. "You and Ben both."

For a moment, Ian's expression was that of pure rage. He lunged forward, very suddenly, too quickly for Riley to take a step back.

There was a confused, still moment, then Ian pulled away and Riley felt a lick of white hot pain in his side.

The flower slipped from his palm as his hand went down, pressing briefly on the pain then bringing them to his face. His fingers were red.

The dagger in Ian's hand glinted in the tavern's lamps.

"You bastard!" Will was yelling. "You dog livered bastard!"

The other players seemed to finally realise what was happening. There was a rush of roars and shouts as Will launched himself at Ian, Richard only moments behind. The brawl spread through the tavern like wildfire, and Riley swayed, rooted to the spot, as fights broke out all around him.

He saw Will grappling with Ian, the knife flashing silver between. He tried to take a step, tried to help, but his legs buckled and gave out beneath him.

His last conscious thought was of the flower, the diamond that still hung around his neck, before his head hit the corner of the table and there was only blackness.

* * *

The frantic pounding on the door woke Ben sometime in the early hours of the morning.

He frowned, stumbling out of bed where he been dozing, fully dressed, in an unhappy sleep.

He was on the stairs as Sadusky opened the door, and to Ben's shock William Shakespeare tumbled into the hall, clothes torn and bloody.

"Lord Gates!" he shouted and Ben hurried down the last of the stairs.

"Lord Gates, you must come."

"What is it? What's happened? Where's Riley?"

Shakespeare's eyes were grave.

"You must come to him, before it's too late."

"What's happened?" he asked again.

"On the way." Shakespeare was already heading back out of the door. Ben hurried to follow him.

"What's going on? Please."

"Riley's been hurt. Badly."

Shakespeare stopped suddenly.

"He may not live through the night."

Ben staggered, suddenly faint. He felt Shakespeare slinging his arm around the other man's shoulders. Urging him along.

"How?" he asked.

"There was a fight in The Mermaid. Your friend Howe was there."

"Ian?"

"He wanted the diamond."

Ben staggered again. Shakespeare pulled him along firmly.

"I told him to forget the diamond. That I didn't care about it anymore."

"Evidently he still did. He tried to take it from Riley."

"God no. this is my fault."

Shakespeare didn't deny it, and Ben felt the guilt assault him in waves.

"He has to live," he said.

Shakespeare said nothing.

* * *

Riley had been taken to the physician in Cheapside.

Although the wound caused by Ian was not deep, Riley had cracked his head as he'd collapsed. If he lived through the night his chances were good. But he had to make it through the night first.

Ben sat by his bedside. He was pale and still.

"What happened to Ian?" he asked.

"He's dead," Shakespeare replied shortly.

Ben didn't ask anymore.

* * *

He placed his palm over the silver flower, still laying against Riley's chest.

"You didn't let him take it," he whispered. "You didn't let him take the last piece of your mother." He kissed Riley's still hands. "Please wake up."

Shakespeare brought him a flask of ale, sometime around sunrise. Ben accepted it gratefully.

"Do you love him?" Shakespeare asked.

Ben almost choked on his mouthful.

"Excuse me?"

"Do you?" Shakespeare pressed.

Ben looked back at Riley. He looked young. Fragile.

"I do. The only thing I do."

"Then tell him. He needs to know it."

* * *

Morning came.

As Ben heard the faint sound of a cockerel crowing nearby, Riley opened his eyes.

* * *

Ben had been banished, sent to wait outside.

He tried to ignore the burning jealousy that sat heavy on his chest, knowing that Shakespeare was in there with Riley now, that Riley had asked Shakespeare to stay.

Shakespeare who, if Ben wasn't mistaken, was very much in love with Riley.

He bit his lip.

He shouldn't feel this way. He had promised himself to Abigail. Riley could be with whomever he chose.

_I want him to choose me._

When Shakespeare finally emerged, he looked drawn and tired but relieved.

"He's going to be okay. The physician thinks the wound will heal."

Ben nodded, his own relief coursing through him.

"You can go and see him now."

Ben had barely taken a step towards the door when Shakespeare stopped him again.

"I care about Riley. Very much. I know you do too, I believe that, which is why I came to you last night. But Riley deserves to be treated well. Can you do that, Ben? Can you treat him as he deserves? Can you love him as he should be loved?"

There was question in Shakespeare's eyes. A veiled threat too.

Ben didn't need to think. He already knew the answer.

"Yes."

* * *

Riley's eyes were closed, but he stirred as Ben came in.

"Hello," Ben said.

Riley smiled weakly.

"Hello, Ben."

Ben sat beside the bed. He half made to touch Riley, but thought better of it.

"I'm sorry," he said instead. "This was all my fault. If I hadn't told Ian you had the last piece…"

Something seemed to shutter in Riley's face.

"So it's true, then, everything Ian said? You knew I had the piece, all along?"

Ben nodded.

"I did."

"And you only told me you loved me, made love to me, so you could acquire it?"

For a moment Ben thought he'd misheard.

"What?"

Riley stared at the ceiling. He looked as if he were about to cry.

"I would have given it to you for nothing," he said softly. "If you had asked I would have given it to you. I would have given you anything."

Ben felt moisture in his own eyes.

"I didn't make love to you so I could get the piece. Yes, I knew you had it, and I admit that I only invited you for dinner that first time to get it. But then I spoke to you. I looked at you. I _knew_ you and everything changed. You made me forget about the piece, forget about the city. I fell in love with you, and suddenly that was enough. That was all I wanted."

He did take Riley's hand then.

"I love you, Riley. I am yours. Completely. That is the truth. That is all that matters."

Riley was silent for a very long moment. When he finally moved, it was to untangle his hand from Ben's. He fumbled in his shirt for a moment, then withdrew the pendant, pulling on it until the chain snapped.

He held it out to Ben.

"The final piece."

Ben reached out, hand shaking slightly. He slipped his fingers over Riley's, closing them back around the flower.

"I don't need it anymore."

Riley took a deep, shuddering breath and the tears finally came. Ben gathered him up into his arms, mindful of his wounds.

"I'm sorry," Riley gasped.

"You have nothing to be sorry for."

"I pushed you away. I believed Ian."

"None of that matters. We're together now. It's okay."

The sat for immeasurable time, Riley warm and alive and _real_ in Ben's arms.

"What do we now?" he asked eventually, voice hushed.

Riley pulled back, wiping away the last of his tears.

"I have this ridiculous idea," he said.

Ben raised an eyebrow.

"Go on."

"I happen to know this rich, eccentric Lord who owns seven pieces of diamond which are said to lead to the city of Troy."

Ben couldn't help the smile that stole across his face.

"Are you actually suggesting we go and search for a mythical city?"

Riley grinned.

"Why not? It isn't like we have anything better to do."

"But what about the company? The theatre?"

Riley bit his lip for a moment.

"You remember the night we met?"

Ben nodded.

"I told you then that the thing I had been waiting for was being on the stage, that that had made my life worth living."

"I remember."

"I lied. You're the thing that makes my life worth living, Ben. And I'd follow you to hell and back, if that was where you wanted to go."

Ben felt that familiar tightness in his chest, that fist pounding away. His heart.

"Well then," he said hoarsely. "To Troy it is. Together."

Together.

Fin.


End file.
